My love,
It was midnight and the sky was still pink and I thought of you. In a way, I always think of you, when someone smiles crooked or laughs at their own stories, when you talk about something you love and I can’t help but smile and listen, having nothing to add. When it comes down to it there are two types of love. Every love song, every poem fits into one of two categories: requited and unrequited love. Sometimes I wonder how many days, how many months, how many years it would take to forget you if our love is of the second sort. I always give up before finding an answer.
Maybe, love is that simple. Either you love me or you don’t. And I hope you do. Here’s to a life of love stories without and thens. To moments in silence with love filling the space, sitting with us whispering reassurances amongst the silence. To the filing cabinet of I love yous, and applesauce on pizza, and black coffees. To the moments where the I love yous were not spoken but still given. To the stories we tell at bars, and over wine, at dinner parties and to grandkids. Like the time it was raining, and we were leaving a fancy party, me in a black dress and you in a suit. When my feet began to ache, and I took off my heels, you looked down at my feet and I swear you were going to tease me or tell me I was weird, but you just took off your shoes and held out your hand for mine. We walked together. I didn’t mind the drizzle, because I was there with you. I think of that quote from To Kill a Mocking Bird, about walking in his shoes and getting to know him. I wonder if I know you, and I know you know me. I think about the song lyrics and last lines of love novels before the words “The End.” I think of all the ones with less lovely endings. The “It would have been beautiful” and “I still think of you.” I wonder if we will end up that way? If one of us will gain the courage to say all these things to the others face, of you will be beautiful somewhere and I will be beautiful somewhere else?
After all … Maybe, a love letter is not enough. Maybe, countless mornings of coffee, bird watching, poems and gossip are not enough. Maybe, Christmases and birthdays and every other holiday in between are not enough. Maybe, burnt roasts and dump over pies are not enough. Maybe summer afternoons with ice cream cones and old books we always meant to read and are just getting around to, staring at the clouds talking about Paris and Vienna are not enough. Maybe a lifetime is not enough. But I know you are.
Contact Colleen at cfischer01@saintmarys.edu.
